


"PSTDs"

by AZ-5 (elim_garak)



Series: The Promise [2]
Category: Homeland
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Death Fix, Co-Parenting, Developing Relationship, Friendship, Happy Ending, Multi, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Whumptober 2019, prompt 11: Stitches, unless Carrie Franny or Max die in season 8 this is canon compliant fight me on this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 15:13:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21078887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elim_garak/pseuds/AZ-5
Summary: The sound of Roy clearing his throat brings his increasingly frantic reverie to a screeching halt.Right eyebrow pinched up, the PA looks at his patient. “You don’t mean—”Luna bobs her head in sheer enthusiasm. “Yeah!PSTDs!He does! Like when soldiers come home and they’re afraid of loud noises and bright lights!”Closing his eyes, Quinn laughs a kiss into her temple. “She means—”“Gotcha.”





	"PSTDs"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NikitaSunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikitaSunshine/gifts), [hidingupatreeorsomething](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidingupatreeorsomething/gifts), [Spotlessmind79](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spotlessmind79/gifts), [Sh_ua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sh_ua/gifts), [Gnomecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnomecat/gifts), [Murmures1234](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murmures1234/gifts), [Shazkowalski](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shazkowalski/gifts), [Frustsheep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frustsheep/gifts).

> Tagging (in the only way ao3 allows, as in 'gifting') a bunch of people because it's been pointed out to me by dearest Emma that people may still be around/want to be around. This is in no way a plea for comments, nor kudos. We die like comrades. Because we live not for the glory but cause alone. Whatever the fuck that means. 
> 
> Anyhow.........
> 
> So, I guess this is it. The prologue/epilogue to The Promise, our (coming soon) long post season 6 slow-burn about Quinn getting away and, in his own fucked-up and littered with mistakes and regrets way, groping his way towards that elusive "normal life, or normal love" he's always wanted. Spoiler alert - he finds it. All of it, and more. In a place he least expects. Including new hope for things he thought long lost. 
> 
> It's been partly written a long time ago. I think NS and I have like 5 chapter pretty much done, 3 for sure. And the whole plot outlined. Which, knowing me, is probably going to change a million times between now and then. 
> 
> So, this is our ultimate attempt to fix things in the... i dunno realistic I guess, maybe, hopefully, in our humble opinion... way. 
> 
> Hope ya'all enjoy reading. We've definitely enjoyed writing. And ain't that what matters the most.

**July 2021, Philadelphia**

His body and soul wrapped around the seemingly unabashed seven-year-old on his knee, he’s doing his damndest to keep his _ mind _ elsewhere; specifically, off the surgical tray to his right.

Roy, the scrawny, long-faced physician assistant who'd finally beckoned them back through the ER doors after their two hour-plus wait in the buzzing hallway, glances at his watch. Seemingly satisfied, he picks up the needle holder with the stainless-steel sickle wedged in its jaws.

“Does this hurt?” he asks, probing the edge of the wound to make sure it’s sufficiently numbed.

Unbidden, Quinn’s eyes fall onto the gaping mouth of a deep, fleshy cut partly obscured by clumped wisps of hair. 

Incredulous, Luna looks up from her perch in the impervious ring of his arms. “Does _ what _hurt?” 

Roy winks, tapping the side of his nose with a gloved finger. “Exactly.”

Her dark, maple-flecked eyes widen with sheer, unadulterated awe at the marvels of local anaesthetics. “Oh!”

Another wink: “Told ya!”

“Hey, hey! No touching. Remember?” Quinn grabs her hand before she can verify the miracle and ruin a good three minutes of sterile prepping. 

“Sorry, Daddy,” she murmurs, burrowing even deeper as she shimmies back on his thigh.

That word, every time she says it - the _ way _she says it, her mouth wrapping around it with a fathomless sweetness that punches the air out of his lungs - it breaks him, chipping away, time and again, at whatever doubt he may still have.

There’s a deep, teary dent to his voice as she draws his arms tighter around her. “I’ve got you, Nugget,” he whispers, planting a firm, reassuring kiss in the shell of her ear. “Ok? I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

“Don’t let go, ok? Promise?”

He smiles. “Couldn’t if I wanted to.”

“No! Say it! Say you promise!”

“Shh-shh, hold still. I promise. I won’t let go.”

She goes limp, finally settling, eyes skewing towards the door. “Johnny? Is he back?” 

“Right here, Looney-beans.” 

His cheek pressed to the side of her head, Quinn feels her face stretch into a joyful grin. “Got Daddy’s coffee?”

“Yep.”

“And my double chocolate-chip muffin?”

“Yep.”

“Extra frosting?”

“Before or after I licked it off?”

“Ew!”

“Juuust kidding. Sit still.”

“And sprinkles?”

“And sprinkles.”

“Hot cocoa?”

“...with the little marshmallows.”

“Extra large?”

“Yep.”

“And you?”

A snort: “They were fresh out.”

Quinn can’t see for himself, but he’s pretty sure she’s rolling her eyes. “What’d _ you _get, silly?”

“Oh, you mean _ other _ than the pain-in-the-butt baby sister who can’t go to a birthday party without winding up with seven stitches?”

_ “Nine. _ Which is more than _ you _ got, sissypants!”

“Hey, I broke my _ arm _ when I was your age.”

“So? You don’t have a _ scar! _ Where’s the scar? Huh? No stitches - no scar.”

Quinn clears his throat. “Actually—”

But before he can show his - uhm, _ superior _ \- knowledge in the stitches-and-scars area, he’s interrupted as Roy suddenly stops suturing, lifting both hands. “Ok, I’m gonna need you to stay still, honey. Or _ this _scar will be an ugly one.”

Luna huffs. “I _ am _ being still.” 

She scratches inside his palm to get his attention, and Quinn realizes that the leg on which she’s saddled has been nervously bouncing this whole time. 

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” he mutters, kissing the side of her head and moving to lift her off him. He looks at Roy. “I’m… It’s my fault. I shouldn’t’ve… It’s the…” His eyes fall on the bloodied crescent of a surgical needle. 

How could he begin to explain to a total stranger what he barely understands himself? 

During his years in the service he thought he’d seen and done it all: from blindly digging bullets out of wounds with all _ kinds _ of questionably sterilized gizmos to using a makeshift sewing kit to patch up his CPO’s abdominal wall keeping his guts from spilling out until they were safely across the border. Under his t-shirt, he’s shredded by scars so severe that they had to be explained to the girls before their first trip to the country club. 

And yet, frustratingly inexplicable like most things about his condition, the moment he stepped into this room the sickening stench of antiseptics combined with the rattle of surgical instruments was all it took to send him into a full blown, cold-sweated panic attack.

He’s about to open his mouth when, stubbornly climbing back onto his knee, Luna beats him to it. 

“Daddy Noah has _ STDs,” _ she explains matter-of-factly, the last word rendering the four occupants of the room speechless. 

The first one to break the silence is Johnny. With a loud snort, the iced tea goes up his nose, through his nostrils, and onto the opposite wall. 

Of all things he should be doing - or _ saying - _ for a moment Quinn just stares at his son, eyes wide, mind racing, suddenly struck dumb by realization that makes the first panic attack look like child’s play. Did Johnny get it? Does his thirteen-year-old understand what it means? And if he does, what _ else _ does he know? Does this mean he needs to have a talk with him? _ The _ talk? Or is it already too late? And... What would he even say? It’s not like anyone bothered with _ him _when he was that age. Should he ask Richard? Could it be that Richard had some things explained to Johnny already? And, most importantly—

The sound of Roy clearing his throat brings his increasingly frantic reverie to a screeching halt. 

Right eyebrow pinched up, the PA looks at his patient. “You don’t mean—”

Luna bobs her head in sheer enthusiasm. “Yeah! _ PSTDs! _ He does! Like when soldiers come home and they’re afraid of loud noises and bright lights!”

Closing his eyes, Quinn laughs a kiss into her temple. “She means—”

“Gotcha.”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve said something before. I thought… It usually goes away on its own after a minute or two.”

Luna’s little arm reaches up and behind her, hooking around his neck. “Do you need Willow to _interrupt?”_ And, before he can answer, she points to the shimmering fuzz of creamy fur splayed leisurely at his feet. “Willow’s Daddy’s epilepsy and _PSTDs_ dog. She can—”

“Um, Nugget? It’s P-T-S-D. Ok, honey? P-T-S-D.”

Slapping herself on the forehead: “Oh, right!” And, in the same breath: “Anyhow - _ interrupt _ means Willow needs to lick Daddy’s hands or… or… his face or… or… cuddle him if he has a bad dream or he gets scared in places with lots of people.”

“...or when _ Luna _ wants Willow to lick _ her _ hands or _ her _ face.” He winks, tickling her sides.

“Can she? Please?” Begging puppy eyes. From _ both. _ God knows he could never say ‘no’ to _ either. _

Whatever gets them out of the emergency room before the end of the century, he thinks, shaking his head and snapping his fingers, which, in turn, makes Willow readily jump to her feet. 

Minutes go by in blissful silence, occasionally interrupted by Luna’s delighted giggles and the wet smacks of Willow's tongue lapping between their joined fingers. 

Then his phone buzzes. 

Luna perks up, unable to move her head to sneak a peek at the messenger window. “Daddy Richard?”

“Yep. He picked up Mia from Ellen’s. They’re on their way over. Asking if you guys want Barbuzzo takeout or would rather grab a bite to eat on our way home."

“Is Franny still coming over?”

“I dunno, Nugget. It’s getting a little late.”

“Pleeeeease, Daddy!” The word does lose _ some _ of its charm when used as means of extortion. "You _ promised!” _

“I know. But that was _ before _ we had to go to the hospital.” She draws a breath to protest but he raises a finger. “Tell you what. How about we see what time we get out of here and, if it’s not too late, I’ll ask Carrie if she can drop her off?”

“Drop her off? Aren’t you having a date night at Carrie’s?”

It’s at times like this that a part of him yearns for the good old days when his job and personal life were equally clandestine.

He shakes his head, huffing a titter. “We _ were _. But Carrie had a late meeting and my little girl decided to take a nose-dive from her friend’s veranda, so we took a raincheck.”

“Awww!”

“I know, sucks to be us. Now: stop fidgeting and hold still before we end up spending the night with _ Roy _here.”

Trimming the thread, Roy shoots him a grateful glance. “So…” he asks, determined to keep his patient distracted for the rest of the procedure. “Daddy Richard?”

Her eyes light up. “Oh! Daddy Richard’s _ my _ daddy. And Mia’s.”

“Uh-huh. As opposed to…”

“Daddy Noah.” She pats Quinn’s knee. “He’s Johnny’s daddy. But he lives with us now.”

“I see. So, Daddy Noah and Daddy Richard are…?” 

“..._ not _ what you think.” Judging by Roy’s expression, at this point, he wouldn’t presume to venture a guess if his life depended on it. “They’re _ co-parents,” _ she clarifies, spreading her palms and grinning. “ _ Not _ life partners.”

“I see,” Roy nods, unpacking another thread. “Go on.”

“So, after Mom died Daddy Noah was helping Daddy Richard take care of the house and Johnny and Mia and me. At first he’d just drive Johnny to school. But then the house got pretty bad and he helped with cleaning and cooking and laundry. And then he had to go to the hospital and we looked after Willow. And then… Oh, my mom’s Johnny’s mom, too. Right, so... She and Daddy Noah used to date. A loooooong time ago. And they had Johnny but then Daddy Noah had to go back on a secret mission, _ again, _ and Mom said she wanted him to stay, and he wanted to, but he couldn’t, and Mom said fine and left and had Johnny alone and then married Daddy Richard and they had Mia and then me. But then she was killed because she was a cop and Daddy Noah came back to take care of Johnny. But he hadn’t _ just _ come back. He’d been living in Philly for like more than two years then because he was shot saving the president and he had to change his name and disappear, and this man who helped him said he _ couldn’t _ live in Philly, ‘cause, you know, he’d lived here before and it was too risky, but Daddy Noah said he didn’t _ give _ a damn and it was a deal-breaker. So the man said fine, he could, but he wasn't allowed to talk to Mom _ or _ Johnny, ever, or even come near them. And he _ didn’t _ , but then one day Mom caught him watching Johnny from near his school and yelled at him, but then she said if he worked on his problems and did his therapy maybe one day he could meet Johnny for real. But then she died and Daddy Noah went away because he thought it was all _ his _ fault, except it _ wasn’t, _ but Daddy Richard says Daddy Noah thinks _ everything’s _ his fault. So he thought Johnny was better off without him. And he wanted to go back to the CIA and he got some of his old stuff. But then he found Mom’s letter. And _ then _ he came back.”

When she’s done, Quinn’s heart is thudding in his ears. You never imagine it possible to have a decade and a half of your miserable life compressed into less than a minute until a seven-year-old human equivalent to WinZip does just that. 

Roy clears his throat, the air he’s been holding slowly siphoning out. “That’s… quite a story," he says.

Quinn sighs with a sad, dumbfounded smile. “Well... we’re quite a family.”

Determined to change the subject, Roy presses on. “So, Franny is…?”

Luna “duh”-spreads her palms again. _ “Carrie’s _ daughter.”

“And Carrie is… Let me guess: Daddy Noah’s girlfriend?”

“Weeeeelllllllllll… Not _ exactly. _ But _ kind of.” _ She rolls her eyes, scoffing. “They’re taking it _ slow.” _ Which earns her a warning tickle. _ “ _ Daddy Noah and Carrie were together in the CIA before he had to disappear. And he was like _ sooooo _ in love with her. Like _ madly _ in love. Like...”

Quinn clears his throat. “I think Roy gets it, Nugget.”

“Right, so the whole time Daddy Noah was in hiding nobody was allowed to know he was alive. Not even Carrie or Uncle Max.”

“Uncle Max?”

“Yeah. Daddy’s friend. And Carrie’s. They were in the CIA together. But he’s retired now. He’s the one who built my computer. And Uncle Jamie’s.”

“Ah-ha! And Uncle Jamie is?”

“Daddy Noah’s little brother. And Uncle Aidan. But not _ really. _ But they know it now. But _ before _ they didn’t. They were part of Daddy’s cover story. And Laura, too, their “mom”. But she died last year. She was Jamie’s and Aidan’s mom. And Daddy’s. But not _ really. _ See, the Fairy Godmother—”

“Okkkkkkkk,” Quinn interrupts, laughing, and, quite frankly, breaking a little sweat. “I think that’s enough family history for one day, honey.”

Roy winks in agreement, trimming the last thread, patting off the residual blood, and admiring the row of meticulously aligned stitches. “Well, Miss Samuels, as much as I’d _ love _ to hear more about the CIA, cover stories, and _ especially _ the Fairy Godmother _ , _ I’m afraid our time’s up.”

________________________

“Oh my God, she _ didn’t.” _

He snorts, propping Luna up in his arms and smacking a kiss on her surgically-repaired head. They proceed to the parking lot, Johnny and Willow a step behind. 

On the other side of the line Carrie scoffs. “_ Not _ funny, Quinn. What if he believed her?”

He’d shake his head, but there’s a phone jammed between his ear and shoulder, so he settles for rolling his eyes instead. “Would _ you?” _

“That’s not the point.”

“What _ is _ the point, Carrie?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb with me, Quinn, alright? You know _ exactly _ what I’m talking about.”

“I do.” He nods, keeping his voice level. “Do _ you? _ Carrie, we’ve talked about this. I’m out. You’re out. Max’s out. The Fairy Godmother’s a ghost. At _ best. _ And, besides - and I can’t stress just how _ key _this is - what are the chances a random PA at the Mercy ER is actually an asset of a foreign intelligence agency sent to gather intel from a seven-year-old who just happened to need stitches when he was on duty?”

There’s a sound of air hissing through clenched teeth. “I _ know. _ But… Quinn…”

“Carrie?” he smiles.

“What?”

“It’s over. Done. I’m done. You’re done. Or at least I _ hope _you are because—”

“I _ am,” _ she blasts, but deflates just as quick, her tone softening. “You know I am. Or I wouldn’t… _ We _ wouldn’t… Jesus, Quinn, you know what I mean.” 

He does. Or, maybe, he_ thinks _ he does, or, at the very least, _ wants _ to. Which, at this point, after everything they’ve been through, together _ and _apart, is more than either one could dare hope for.

“I was really looking forward to seeing you today,” he says softly. 

There’s a faint huff that falls somewhere in between exasperated and coy. “I _ know. _ Me too. I’ll see you tomorrow at Maggie’s though, right? Maybe we could sneak out early. Have Max run interference.”

“See,” he laughs, “that, right there - starting an operation with the assumption that Max is _ capable _ of running interference - is how we _ usually _ fuck it up.” 

Johnny and Luna’s unanimous “Dollar in the swear jar” is nipped in the bud by a loud honk. 

They say quick goodbyes, and, grinning from ear to ear, Quinn doubles his pace, struggling in vain to keep up with Willow, who, at the sight of the family minivan, crosses the parking lot in several big leaps.

The side door slides open, and, in a dazzle of fiery auburn, out jumps Franny, followed by Mia. He barely has time to set Luna down before the stale summer air is ablaze with exuberant whimpers and shrieks. 

Quinn sighs in amazement. He should probably ask how on Earth, in the middle of what’s becoming a strong case for their craziest summer vacation Monday to date, Richard fit in three patient appointments in the morning, expert testimony in Gettysburg in the afternoon, grocery shopping, and takeout, and _ still _managed to meet Max halfway to Maryland to pick up Franny. 

But he won’t. 

Instead, he smiles, shaking his head in exhausted exasperation at this month’s winner of the prestigious Samuels-Quinn-Hayes Super-Dad Academy Award who, shirt unbuttoned and tie loose, peels himself from the driver's seat and out the side door. 

Eyebrows arched in weary amusement, they exchange tired glances over the squealing tangle of arms and paws.

“Wake me up when we get home,” Richard quips, tossing the keys over to Quinn. “Or when they’re off to college. Whichever comes first.”

Quinn moves to catch the keys with his right hand, but at the last moment swoops in with his left. _ Fuck me, _ he smirks, hugely impressed with his most recent PT achievement, a sentiment that is amply reflected in the ridiculously smug grin plastered over his face.

“Show-off,” Richard jests, with a widening smile and the awe-stricken look in his eyes that betray more admiration and incredulity than could ever be put into words.

  


By the time he reaches Rittenhouse Square it’s almost 10pm. He makes his way through the intricate net of some of the oldest, most beautiful streets in Philadelphia, relishing the centuries-old embarrassment of riches resplendent in the soft halo of street lights. Until, a few blocks later, he's finally pulling into the parking spot in front of the stunning old brownstone that even at night looks as if plucked from an oil painting. 

Home. 

He kills the engine, closing his eyes, and, for a brief moment, lets the silence swallow him whole. 

While his day wasn’t nearly as productive as Richard’s, the exhaustion is starting to take its toll. A quick recap of the last twenty four hours or so adds up to: twelve-hour long night shift at the shelter with two admissions and one particularly eruptive detox (scrubbing the toilet included), driving Johnny to camp, an hour long physiotherapy session, brunch with Aidan, four hours of sleep interrupted by a frantic call from Jenny informing him of Luna’s little mishap on the veranda, picking up Johnny on their way to the hospital, two hours of waiting in line, another two hours of waiting for the discharge papers. And now - this.

He opens his eyes, looks around, and briefly considers just letting everyone stay where they are: the girls sprawled in their seats, all three out cold, Johnny and Willow cuddled in their signature snuggle position (Willow spread over the back seat with Johnny on top of her), and Richard, passed out in the passenger’s seat, glasses askew, the suit jacket Quinn covered him with back on Broad Street still draped over his chest and shoulders.

He smiles, eyes skipping from one to the other, as if trying to commit everything about this day, this moment, to memory.

He remembers the quizzical look on Roy’s face as he listened to the little girl babble away about co-parenting, assassination attempts, secret identities, cover stories, the CIA, and the Fairy Godmother. He didn’t believe a word of it. Quinn _ knows. _ Because you can take the man out of the CIA but you can’t take away fifteen years of covert operations: he _ knows, _ because, once upon a time, it was his _ job _ to know whether or not the person in front of him bought a story.

But, mostly, he knows Roy didn't believe a word of that wild roller-coaster of a whimsical tale because even now, four and a half years later, having _ lived _through it, there are days like today, like this very moment, when he can hardly believe it himself.

**Author's Note:**

> NS- this is it, I guess. But then, this is what we always say, isn't it? I'd start listing all of the things for which I'm immeasurably grateful to you. But I won't. Because what can't do the topic due justice is better left unsaid. Also, because no words ever could.  
My eternal love.  
Radioactive Bunny


End file.
